Tag Archives: to let go

I had read that yesterday afternoon, while I waited for LA-LA’s haze to clear. It never did. Because by the time I saw the anticipated clarity of the sky — something we all think we’re entitled to, around here, on the daily basis — the smog had already crawled in, like just another cloud; and it was time to call it a night. Or, it was time to call it an evening, at least.

So, I kept on reading, sprawled out on the floor among my books and collecting random bits of opinions by others that have come — and written — before me; in possible hopes that someone would do it a little better than them, down the road…

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.

That life — didn’t really work that way. That it consisted of choices — poor choices and those that were slightly better — all conducted in reaction to complete chaos. And then, of course, there would be consequences to those choices as well; and more choices — poor and those that were slightly better — would follow, in reaction to more consequences. And on, and on, and on: Life would carry on, with the better of us learning to commit slightly better choices. And a life with the biggest majority of better choices, I suppose, would make for a life, best-lived.

Pretty bleak, that thing that someone had said once. And it would keep me distraught for the rest of the day. I also knew it would keep me awake, when it would finally be time to call it a night. Or, to call it an evening, at least.

So: By the time it became clear that LA-LA’s haze would never clear yesternight, I left the house for the other side of town, speeding through its residential streets, in search of a catharsis if not an adventure. Occasionally, I would wave at other drivers to let them have their right of way; and most would appear slightly surprised — at my better choice. When the exhausted joggers and the defensive pedestrians waited to be noticed at intersections, I would make eye contact with them and nod. And at some, I would even smile: Like the sporty Jewish mother in her Lulu pants with a pretty but androgynous child inside a baby carriage, on Robertson. Or the tired Mexican man, in dusty clothes, pushing along his cart with leftovers of souring fruit, from his selling island on Venice and Fairfax. Or the two young lovelies, who despite the never cleared LA-LA’s haze, decked themselves out in delicious frocks; enticing me with their tan legs and taut arm exposed, on Abbot Kinney.

I nodded, I smiled. I waved, on occasion. In some odd state of calm resignation, I found myself in adoration — with the never cleared city. That mood, ever so close to surrender, would be my slightly better choice, for the evening (even though I wouldn’t think about it long enough to realize its further consequences).

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life. That life didn’t really work that way. That is was all chaos, random choices with their even more random consequences.

Later, while I waited for a rendezvous with a man so luminous and kind he would make me want to forgive all others that came before him, I lost track of time in a conversation with a friend. A friend that had been a comrade at first, then a lover; until we would make a poor choice to put an end to it; then a slightly better one — to preserve what was left. He had once asked me why I kept in touch with those that had come before him.

“For the stories,” I would respond, immediately surprising myself with the clarity of my choice.

At the time, he would find that choice slightly poor. But yesterday evening, he had to finally see it — as a slightly better one. (Redemption, at last!) Because in my stories, I had become a researcher of consequences. And perhaps my act of defiance had come from the fear of being forgotten — the fear of being inconsequential — but I would choose to remember, him and those that had come before him, and I would keep track of our stories. And also, I would keep track of our choices — however poor or good — in possible hopes that at least one of us would do it a little better, the next time, somewhere down the road.

And no matter the choices, no matter the consequences, all along, I would insist on kindness. That way, in the end, in addition to the intimacy that could soothe a broken heart, there would a new sensation: Something, that for the first time yesternight, to the two of us, would feel like grace — some sort of stubborn choice to be slightly better.

Yes, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life. That life didn’t work that way.

But last night, in the midst of the never cleared LA-LA haze, I dared to differ: Although others indeed could not always grant closures for my own life — or for our mutual stories; I would always make the slightly better choice for forgiveness. And isn’t forgiveness — just another name for closure, anyway?

Last night, in the midst of a city very much like New York — my city, not your city — we stood in between two slow snowfalls; and you were suddenly taken. It’s the way I had seen too many fall for my city — not your city — when all that grime and mess and neuroses had been covered by the endless, fresh sheets of snow; suddenly making life seem not so hard. Not so bad. (It would happen a lot, in my city, unless those in the midst of it had arrived with some stubborn arrogance in tow. But if they hadn’t made up their mind, most of the time they would fall, for my city.)

In a nook of a miniature park, in the cove between two high-rises, the air was warm, windless: It was waiting for the next fall. Generally, it had been true, about my city: It never failed to give it a rest, but not until one was hopelessly fed up; on the verge of losing one’s mind. And then the city would let up a little, for long enough to grant a breather. Just as we were now:

In a nook of a miniature park, you and I — were in the midst of a breather, in between two slow snowfalls.

You always stood so tall: more of my son than any others that came before you. Sometimes, I would catch your blue-eyed gaze deciphering something I could not have known. (A life? A love? A dream, a game, a sport.) You’d see me looking up and you’d wink: Busted, baby tall. So very much busted. I did look up this time, again, but at the heavy clouds patching up the night sky — little foam baths for shiny stars:

“How long is the breather?” I wondered. “How long can we have, here?”

But you always stood so tall, so there you were: Right above me, winking. And suddenly, all that manhood that someone had taught you to put on — the control, the knowledge, the groove I had always secretly worshiped in you — all that fell away. Two step was all it took for you to make it over to a hilly flowerbed (because you always stood and walked so tall); and before I could say, “Love?” — you were on the ground, awkwardly for your height, but still, very much my son. Your long limbs began to swing around, as if swimming in a giant pool; and you began to laugh in a way I had never heard, in the midst of our breathers: abundantly and out of control, as if no damage had ever happened to your child.

“What are you up to, over there?” I asked, chuckling; and I felt my tear ducts kick-in.

“So good!” you answered, “Really: So good!” It’s what you’d always say when you wanted my participation. And back into the giant pool of your laughter you dove in. Out of control.

It would take my slow descent onto the patch of snow underneath my feet; for I was always older than you, flaunting those years as aging big cats do when teaching their cubs how to hunt. I was wearing that same black coat from college, but it now sat a couple of sizes too big on my tauter, more disciplined body. So, it asked for some maneuvering to land onto my back. I spread the bottom of of the coat like a giant tail and reluctantly began replicating your strange, unlikely behavior.

“Oh,” I said — I finally got it — and looked over at your blue-eyed gaze deciphering something. “Is baby tall making snow angels?”

“Yep.”

But then, you stopped laughing, back in control — in the knowledge, in the groove of all that manhood someone had taught you to put on.

In the midst of a city very much like New York — my city, not your city — I thought:

“Here is — to NOT happening.”

It has been my toast to every morning since I’ve learned to wake up without you. It has become my prayer, my chronic chant as I continue to flaunt my years in front of other cubs that have happened since you. They can’t hang, can’t groove, can’t hunt; and they definitely don’t know how to follow an older woman’s lead. And so they leave, soon enough, for younger, simpler loves. And I don’t even itch with resistance: I let them go.

“Here is — to NOT happening,” I think.

Sometimes, a love story is not a go-to novel, pregnant with favorite quotations, that rests on a bookshelf dusty everywhere else but in its vicinity. Sometimes, it’s just a vignette: a pretty design on the spine of someone’s history. A short story. A lovely fable. A melancholic lullaby. And so fearful we are, sometimes, of our own mortality — of our irrelevance — so stubbornly arrogant, we leap into a sad habit of making a mess out of our break-ups and departures. And we just can’t let it go.

But not this time, baby tall. Not with this aging big cat. Because you were more of my son than any others that came before you; and because my age had asked me for much slower maneuvering in that tauter, more disciplined body of mine.

So many had come before you, and they had taken so much; I am still surprised at how easily I am ready to love. But even if they have vanished entirely, after our messy break-ups and departures, I am too wise to dismiss them. They are still — my lovely fables. My melancholic lullabies. And no matter how long the healing, with the next magnificent love, I inevitably have come to know:

“Here is — to NOT happening.”

Oh, but it’s a good thing, my baby tall: to not have happened! “Really: So good!”

So, here is — to this breather, in between our falls, in between our dreams. And yes, here is — to the next magnificent love, or the next vignette.